Playing a Genius Like a Violin
by aralana765
Summary: Three years after Sherlock jumped, John finds him on the doorstep of 221b. However, he's not the only one back. Now, John has to lie to Sherlock and string him along if he wants the detective to stay alive.


John stormed through the dreary streets of London, trying to figure out just how he was feeling. Angry? Yes. Confused? Definitely. Hurt? Beyond belief. Sherlock was back. Just like that. Standing on the doorstep, looking so... At first, John had assumed he had finally cracked. This wasn't Sherlock; it was merely a hallucination. But then he had felt the hesitant hand on his shoulder, heard the crack in his voice as he apologized so desperately, seen the haggard appearance of a man who had not slept in far too long. He wouldn't have imagined Sherlock like that: so tired, broken, and seeking forgiveness. But John had to prove that he was real. And what better way to do so than to punch him. He did not hold back. He knew had not caused any real damage, but Sherlock would have a rather colorful bruise soon. However, John did not wait around to see it. He could not say. He ran past Sherlock into the cold, not even bothering to grab his jacket, and definitely did not have tears falling down his cheeks. At least, none that Sherlock would see.

His body had gone numb quickly enough. Or maybe it was not quick. John honestly had no idea just how long he'd been out. One hour? Two? Three? Long enough that the light was starting to fade from the cloudy sky. Sherlock had appeared around noon. So, closer to six hours, John decided. He sighed. He had to face Sherlock again eventually. He knew that. But how was he supposed to do that? Yes, he was happy to see Sherlock again, now that some of the shock had worn off. But he was angry. How could Sherlock have done that to him? Did he even consider John when he all but destroyed him with that single step off St. Barts? After all-

John's thoughts came to a sudden halt as he noticed the figure across the street. A familiar figure. A familiar, thin, well dressed figure. Even from this distance, John could see those mad, black eyes. He stiffened. This was impossible. Today was impossible. First Sherlock, now Moriarty.

What should he do? The smart thing would be to call Lestrade. Or the flat. Sherlock would answer if it was him, and he could help. Maybe even just go home, pretend none of this had happened, and go back to that rubbish therapist. But then, John had never really been the smart one. He _needed_ to know if this was real. So when James Moriarty smirked and turned to enter the building behind him, John Watson followed.

They were not alone. Jim stood next to a tall, stoic, muscular blonde man holding a gun with practiced ease. John stood before them, unconsciously taking on a military stance. "So," he said as calmly as he could. "What's this, then?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm back. I thought you might want to know." He cocked a single eyebrow, as though reading John's thoughts. "I'm no hallucination, Dr. Watson. I'm very real. And I'm very much alive. And you're the first to know. Well, second, if you count Sebby here." He nods his head at the military man beside him. "Not even your precious detective knows yet. I understand that he finally came home. And that you didn't make it easy."

John's hands curled into fists by his sides. "I think that's warranted. I've thought he was dead for three years. I thought the same of you. How did you survive?"

Moriarty waved absently. "Does it really matter? I'm not here to brag. I'm here to offer you a job. I should inform you, it has a marvelous pay."

John blinked. "I don't want a job from you." He shifted his weight, noticing the way the tall man adjusted his grip on the gun. "Pay doesn't matter."

"I think you'll find it does." He smiled at John as though he were a teacher indulging in a particularly dull student's questions. "After all, you'll be paid with Sherlock Holmes' life."

"I...What?"

Moriarty began to pace slowly, accentuating his words with hand gestures. "You see, Sherlock has been shutting down quite a bit of my operation. On a global scale. However, I could never quite get my hands on him. He moved far faster than I expected. But now, he thinks he's done. He's accomplished enough to think you're safe. He's ready to settle down at home." He smirked. "Of course, if he knew I was still alive, wouldn't feel the same way. Here's my offer, John. I will let him live. I will let him live safely with you. But only if you work for me."

John gritted his teeth. "And why shouldn't I just tell him you're back? Send him running again, or send him after you?"

"Because the instant he learns about me ahead of schedule, I'll have Sebastian shoot him." The man with the gun, Sebastian, shifted, his face indifferent. "He's an excellent marksman, my Moran is. You won't be able to save him."

Stiffening slightly, John's gaze slid over Moriarty's cruel smile to Sebastian's calm demeanor. He just got Sherlock back. And now he could lose him again. "What... What would I have to do?"

"Oh, nothing you wouldn't do eventually. I want you to get close to Sherlock again. Forgive him. He did, after all, have a good reason. Allow him back into your life." He paused, looking at John to make sure he was paying attention. "I want the two of you to be closer than you ever were before. I want you to make him love you." He smirked, chuckling darkly. "He's more than halfway there already."

John ignored the last remark. "And if I don't, you'll kill him?" The consulting criminal nodded. "Then I really don't have a choice, do I?" A shake of the head was his only response. "I'll have to hurt him eventually, won't I?"

"Of course. But not for a while. And not until I say so. You work for me now, Johnny. I'll text you with further orders. I have your number. Oh!" The small man smiled cheerfully. "I almost forgot. Don't think you can sneak some message to Sherlock about me. I have so many eyes and ears on you that not even I find it funny. Now. Your job starts today. Get to work." He gave a gleeful wave, and Moriarty and his lapdog left through a back door.

As soon as they were gone, John stumbled back against a pillar. It was always like this. The panic set in too late. He had a lot to process now. Moriarty was alive. Sherlock was alive. And now he had to play Sherlock to keep him that way. He had to keep a secret from the most observant man on the planet. How on earth was he supposed to do that? He couldn't. Not now. Not today. Moriarty would have to wait until he had processed everything. After a moment, he shook his head, straightened, and stepped back into the cold to head home to Baker Street.

When he reached the building, he did his best to ignore the figure on the doorstep waiting for him. He made his way upstairs and lay out on the couch, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. He felt the light, gently hands that lay a blanket over him, and heard the quiet footsteps leading away to the chair. The room was silent until John's phone vibrated. He sighed and tugged it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen under the blanket. A blocked number.

_I'm rather disappointed. One day on the job, and already slacking. -JMx_

John rolled his eyes, huffed quietly, and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he just tugged the blanket higher around his shoulders and rolled to face the back. Was this shock? Was he going into his shock? Had Sherlock known? It would explain the blanket, he thought absently.

He could tell that Sherlock was trying to give him time. He also knew that, with the six hours he'd been out, the detective would not be able to stay quiet for much longer. He had already gone longer than John had expected. It was another half hour before he gave in. "John?" He did not receive a response. "Are you...alright?"

The ex-soldier surprised himself by releasing a rough laugh. "No. I'm not alright. I found out my best friend lied about being dead for over three years." And that the man who tried to kill you wants to use me against you, he thought. "My best friend let me mourn him for three years. How am I supposed to be alright?"

"May I at least explain myself? Explain why I did what I did?"

Permission. Sherlock was asking John for permission. His voice sounded hollow, tired, but also painfully hopeful. John sighed. "No. You don't have to. Moriarty was found on the rooftop that day. He was pronounced dead." Incorrectly, evidently. "He gave you an ultimatum."

"Yes. He had guns on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I...jumped, you would have been safe."

"But you knew that was coming. You figured it out when we left Kitty Riley's." There was no response. "You did, Sherlock. I'm not stupid."

He heard Sherlock shift, leaning forward. "Of course you're not."

"Then you made me leave you at Bart's alone. Who called me anyway?"

Sherlock's voice was muffled slightly. John guessed he was looking down. "One of my homeless network."

"Right. Then you met with Moriarty, on your own, and made me watch as you jumped off a building. You _made_ me _watch_. You told me to watch you. Why not-Why not tell me to take cover? Or go inside? Or lose the gunman that's apparently tailing you? Anything that would tell me that it wasn't your fault! But instead, you said 'watch me'! I'm a fraud and a liar and a cheat!" John's breath caught in his throat and he fell silent to keep from crying in front of Sherlock. He had not, over the entire three years Sherlock was gone, cried in front of anyone. He had only done so in the privacy of his own room.

John heard Sherlock stand and move close. He heard the man kneel next to the couch and felt the warm hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry, John. Really and truly sorry." There was a sincerity in Sherlock's voice that John was not sure he had ever heard before. "You had to believe, or Moriarty's men wouldn't. I've been working the last three years so that I could come back. I had to weaken his empire, what was left of it, and I couldn't stop. I wanted to come back, John, but I had to be sure you were safe first." John snorted. Yes. He was definitely safe now. "Will you forgive me?"

John was silent for a long moment. "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't think I can. Not right now, not right away. I need time." He held a hand up to keep Sherlock from responding, and felt his phone vibrate again. He opened the text as he added, "I know why you did it. I don't care about how. But you hurt me. A lot. And I don't know if I can forgive you for that."

He glanced down at the screen of his phone, careful to keep it out of the detective's view.

_You're good. Make him crave forgiveness. Dangle it in front of him. I want to watch him dance. -JMx_

John tucked his phone away and rolled over to face Sherlock. He tried to keep the lie of his face. "You'll have to prove to me that you won't do it again. That you won't leave, that you'll stay with me. Alright?"

John could tell that Sherlock was attempting not to smile, not to show relief. "Perfect. I can do that. I have no plans for leaving you again, I assure you. I won't push you like I used to."

That even made John smile. "Yes, you will. I know you better than that." He felt another buzz in his pocket, but he ignored it. He glanced at the clock on the mantle and asked, "Why don't we go get dinner, hm? I didn't have lunch, and... Well, I seem to have been busy."

Sherlock actually did smile. "Dinner sounds wonderful. Angelo's?" He offered John a hand up from the couch, which the doctor accepted after a moment of confusion.

"Angelo's," he agreed, pulling out his buzzing mobile to glance at the screen.

_Keeping it familiar. Well done. -JMx_

_This will be much easier than I thought. He's half in love with you already. But you need to get him all the way there. And quickly. -JMx_

The walk to Angelo's was quiet, but not entirely uncomfortable. Sherlock received a few second glances, but he entirely ignored them. That is, John thought, if he noticed them at all. In fact, the detective had been watching John avidly since they left the flat, as though walking down the street was the most interesting thing Sherlock had ever seen him do. Just before they reached the door, John asked, "What are you looking at?"

Sherlock responded with a look that said that is should have been obvious. "You."

"Yes, well, I got that bit. But why? You're not, you know, deducing me, are you?" That would be a problem. The detective would be able to pick up on his nerves, his guilt, his discomfort. It was not like John was good at hiding it.

But Sherlock smiled slightly. "I was, at first, just to see how you've been doing. But then I started to memorize you again."

"Again? Doesn't memorize typically mean remember, so you _won't_ have to do it again?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Typically, yes," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, opening the door and allowing John to enter before him. "But the past three years required...concentration. I had to delete a few details. Actually, more than a few. I was loathe to do it, but it was necessary, both to work and to keep from worrying about you. The less I had to remember about you, the less time I spent wondering if my plan had failed. So I deleted what I had to. So I'm relearning now. For example," he continued, leading them to their normal table, "I deleted the fact that when you walk, you tend to keep the slightest of marches in your step. It's especially noticeable when you are nervous, or uncomfortable, but don't want to show it. Like now. My return has unnerved you."

John actually managed a laugh at that. "Yeah, it has. It would unnerve anyone. In fact, most people would be questioning their sanity by now."

"And yet," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "you're not. I'm assuming you considered that possibility on your...walk earlier."

"I did. And I should still be thinki-"

John was interrupted by a grinning Angelo nearly tackling Sherlock to the ground with a rather large hug. "Sherlock! I knew the papers were wrong! It's good to see you!"

Sherlock acknowledged him in his normal fashion before taking a seat at their normal table. Angelo rushed off to get the candle he kept for such situations, something John-for the first time-did not protest. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You're ignoring his insinuation."

The doctor did not look up from his menu, pulling his phone onto his lap below the table as it vibrated. "Am I?"

_Sublte, Johnnycake. But Sherley's a smart boy. You'll have to do better than that. -M_

John just barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes.

"Yes, you are. Normally, you protest the candle. Or at least the idea of the two of us being a couple. Now...you're accepting that judgement without comment. Why?" Sherlock set his menu aside, and John mimicked him.

How was he supposed to answer that? "I never thought you noticed."

"That's not an answer."

Damn. "Because I don't care anymore." At least a partial truth wouldn't get him caught. "After you...left, I mourned you. And everyone did their best to support me. That is, until the first year passed." He looked down. "Then I was 'clinging to you'. And maybe I was. I don't know. But people either pushed me to move on, or left me to myself. But somehow the idea spread that the two of us were lovers. That's why I was taking it so hard. I just gave up correcting them." He bit his lip, then added carefully and quietly, "I started to wonder about it myself."

Sherlock's expression showed the barest hint of shock before going carefully blank. "I apologize for causing all of that."

"No, Sherlock, it's fine." He paused. "Well, it's not fine. But you don't have to keep apologizing." He smiled slightly and rested his hand on the table. "It's a bit uncomfortable hearing you do it once. Hearing it twice..."

The guarded expression slipped away and Sherlock smirked. "Thank goodness. I did mean it, I assure you, but it is quite tiresome to say it over and over again."

John glanced down at his lap as his phone lit up.

_You're much better at this than I gave you credit for. You're playing him perfectly.- JMx_

"I know," he responded, hoping Sherlock did not notice his distraction. "I always had to say it since you refused to." He smirked as Sherlock's expression grew pompous. "Do you know how often Greg wanted to kick you off a crime scene? Nearly every time. And the only reason you weren't was because I apologized for you and he was desperate."

The pompous look seemed to be fading into embarrassment. "I'm not apologizing for that. I never asked you to do it." There was a lull in the conversation as Angelo brought their regular orders to the table, taking the menus up. They'd only been a formality anyway.

John began again when the cheerful, oblivious man was out of range. "No. You didn't. But I did it anyway. Because you needed me to..." John glanced down, avoiding Sherlock's piercing gaze. When he finally looked up again, Sherlock was watching him intently. "What?"

"You. You're..." He paused, searching for the right word. "You're different."

John raised his eyebrows. "Yes. That's what happens when you don't see someone for three years. They change."

"No, that's not it. The way you're talking to me... I expected you to be angry for much longer. Then you would return to shock, and finally be happy at my return. Not...this. Not so accepting. Laughing, talking, like I've never been away. Why are you so different?"

John paused, and checked his phone when it vibrated.

_Choose your next words carefully. -JMx_

As if he needed that advice. "Maybe..." He considered a few answers, taking a bite of his dinner. He knew he had to do what Moriarty said, but Sherlock was beginning to notice his odd behavior. "Maybe..." he said again. "I don't know. I don't know why, Sherlock. I think I'm trying to ignore that you left at all." He stares down at his plate, noticing distantly that Sherlock was eating. "That you left me." John felt awful. He was manipulating his best friend, trying to-he shook his head slightly, then tried to hide it by taking another bite. He was trying to make Sherlock Holmes fall in love. And when it all came out, it would destroy him. But at least he would be alive. He looked up, swallowed, and met Sherlock's eyes. "Don't do that again, okay?" This he meant. "Don't leave me again. Don't leave me alone again. I can't take it, do you understand? I'm surprised I survived your death at all. I know I won't again." John felt hysteria start to take hold and he clenched one hand into a tight fist, digging his nails into his palm. His other hand reached out quickly, frantically, and gripped Sherlock's hand tight. He needed to ground himself. "_Please_ don't do anything like that to me again."

Sherlock appeared to watch him calmly, though a touch of guilt colored his eyes. "I won't, John. I couldn't do it again. It was... It was painful for me as well.

_You're so close to tears, John. Is that real? Or are you just that good? -JMx_

"I know." John's voice was quiet and rough. He _was_ holding back tears. "It was bad for both of us. So promise me. You can't do that ever again."

Sherlock met his gaze. "I promise, John."

The doctor sat back in his seat, letting his meal get cold, and closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself. He had had enough practice doing that the past few years. When he finally opened his eyes, Sherlock was looking down. At the table. At they're hands. Their clasped hands. John had yet to let go. He blushed and nearly pulled away. But he caught himself before he could do so. He did not need a text message to tell him that this was a good opportunity to make a point. Instead of letting go, like he knew Sherlock would expect, he squeezed the hand in his own gently.

"John..." There was a confused tone in Sherlock's voice, one John was not sure he'd seen before. "You're not letting go."

"No, I'm not." John slowly used his other hand to resume eating, though his appetite was quite gone.

"And you didn't protest the candle." Now his words were hesitant, as though his mind had made connections he didn't believe to be true.

"No, I didn't.'

"You said you questioned our relationship after I left."

"So I did." He ran a light thumb over Sherlock's knuckle.

The detective's expression was carefully guarded. "You're interested in me."

John raised his eyebrows. "Always have been."

"You're interested in me romantically."

He swallowed. "Yes." He bit his lip, attempting to both see Sherlock's reaction, and avoid his gaze.

Sherlock was clearly flitting through possible responses. "Your feelings..." he began hesitantly, before steeling himself. "The feeling is mutual."

John's eyes widened. He hand jerked and he threw himself back into his chair. "What? You feel-No. Shit! You're not-It's not-" His breathing sped up. It was not possible. He had expected to have to work on him for weeks. Months even. But so soon... "God, Sherlock!"

The detective frowned, sitting back and trying to figure out what he had missed. "I assumed that would be good..." Then something dawned on him, and he completely shut down. "Was this your revenge for leaving you? You didn't mean it?"

_Think fast, Johnny boy. You had better fix this. Or I will. I have my gun at the ready.- M_

"No! No, Sherlock, I did. I meant it. I'm sorry. I just..." He glanced around, searching desperately for some answer for his reaction. "I was just shocked. That's all. I'm sorry. I expected you to-to laugh, or ignore me, or tell me off. I prepared for a reaction like that. I mean, I didn't really prepare, but... I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Really." He took his hand again, clinging to it like a lifeline, Sherlock's lifeline. If Sherlock did not believe him, if he left... "Please, Sherlock, believe me."

John was not sure how he looked. Desperate, probably. Scared. Maybe hopeful. But he prayed that Sherlock would not see what he was really going through. "I swear, I meant it." He sighed when he looked down at their joined hands, and loosened his grip. "I just messed everything up, didn't I?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock was silent. John waited. Finally, Sherlock squeezed the hand in his lightly. "No. You startled me with your reaction." He paused, uncertain. "You do, truthfully, feel romantically for me?"

The doctor forced himself to meet his old friend's eyes. "Yes, I do."

The taller man actually smiled. Maybe John _was_ a good liar, if Sherlock had not noticed his distress.

_I'm honestly surprised he believed you. Maybe he just thinks you're trustworthy. We know better, though. Don't we John? And he'll know soon enough. -JMx_

Managing a small smile in return, John looked down at his plate. "Maybe we should go home. Talk about this somewhere private." He knew, logically, that home was no safer for them than a public restaurant, but it would at least feel more natural.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You've barely eaten." A glance at the detective's plate showed that he had had about the same amount John had.

"We'll get the rest to go. If that's alright with you, I mean. I think people are starting to recognize you anyway. I've seen more than a few people with an 'am I going crazy' look."

A chuckled came from the detective, a familiar sound that managed to pull an honest smile from the doctor across the table. "If it will make you feel better. But I'd like to stop by the Yard, if you don't mind, John. Inform Lestrade that I've returned." He paused, standing. "I wonder how many cases have gone unsolved without my assistance."

"None." At the look Sherlock shot him, John added, "None of Lestrade's anyway. I helped him with a lot of cases, as a consultant. I got pretty good at it. Not like you, but good enough."

Sherlock adjusted his scarf, and John could tell that he was hiding annoyance at not being needed. "The Yard wasn't biased against you for working with me for so long?"

"Not really. Not after the first case. I didn't notice near as much as you would have, so it wasn't hard to explain it. Then they could see it too. So I kept getting asked for help. Over the last month, it hasn't just been Lestrade. Dimmock came by, and Gregson. One of two others. But mostly Lestrade."

Angelo hurried over, seeing Sherlock stand, and handed them two to go boxes without question. John slid their food into them, watching as Sherlock adjusted his coat, turning up the collar. He could not help the grin that crept across his face. To think he'd hated that before. He stacked the two to go boxes, checking his phone before pocketing it again.

_Come on now, slow poke. You've got his attention. Now move on- M_

With a quiet sigh, he grabbed the boxes and walked next to Sherlock as they left. He considered his next move carefully. With the women he had dated, he always hesitated to move forward. He did not want to seem over eager by assuming she wanted to hold hands, or kiss, or something. He generally let her make the first move when it came to anything physical. But he knew he had to be first in this situation. Without looking, John shifted the boxes, and set his hand a little from his side than usual. His knuckles brushed lightly against his friend's.

The detective's walk slowed almost unnoticeably, his eyes flitting from John's face to his hand. John left his hand where it was, an open invitation. It was another twenty steps before he felt long, slender fingers engulf is own. He could not help himself. He smiled. Maybe not all of this had to be terrible. Holding Sherlock's hand, walking the streets of London, having his best friend back. This part was good. Very good.

They had nearly mad it to Scotland Yard when Sherlock broke the comfortable silence. "Have there been any changes at the Yard? Besides your sudden increase in solo visits?"

"Ultimately? Only a few. A few new officers, a few officers left, retired, or died. Greg was demoted after you...left, but he worked until he was made a DI again. His first move was getting Donovan transferred. He didn't want her working here anymore, not with all the fights we picked with each other."

"You picked fights with a woman?" Sherlock seemed amused.

John scowled. "She kept trying to convince me you were a fraud. She wouldn't let it go. No one was sorry to see her go, anyway. Most of the officers and detectives still believed in you, whether they'd admit it or not." He paused, then smiled. "Anderson apologized to me."

Sherlock stopped short. "He did? What for?"

"For siding with Sally about you against Lestrade. He thought you'd be kept away from crime scenes for a few months, not arrested. And he felt like he contributed to your fall off St. Bart's. So he apologized to me. He's still an idiot, but that's something to applaud him for, I think."

"Forgive me if I don't. In fact, I might have to pay him a personal visit. Perhaps he'll think I'm a ghost." He glanced down at John with a smirk. "Did you hit her?"

"Her? Her who?"

"Sally, John. You said you fought. Was it ever a physical fight?"

The good doctor blushed slightly. It was not his proudest moment. "Only once. She was training. I got angry and she told me to give it a shot. I did. I won."

Sherlock grinned. "As if there was any doubt. I wish I could have seen that."

"I think Lestrade still has the video on his phone," John said absently. "I'm sure he'll show it to you if you ask nicely."

"I suppose I'll have to." The two men paused outside the door to Scotland Yard. "What do you think? Big entrance? Or small?"

John smiled. "Big. Like old times."

Sherlock nodded and adjusted his coat and scarf, adopting his haughtiest look before crashing through the doors. He made his movements as dramatic as he could, pushing through the mass of people. John barely contained a laugh as each person who was shoved aside turned angrily, only to freeze when they saw who was among them. He hurried after his friend as he had always done, taking care not to drop their food.

The consulting detective did not appear to see their reactions, but John could tell that, not only did he notice, but he was enjoying each and every one. When he reached Lestrade's door, Sherlock paused only long enough to check with John that this was still the DI's office before throwing the door open. He stepped in, his eyes flitting across every surface of the room and the Detective Inspector himself.

Lestrade, who had been writing a report seconds ago, jumped to his feet with wide eyes, his chair toppling behind him. "Sher- Sher-" He did not seem capable of getting the name out. When John shut the door quietly to stop the stares coming from outside, Lestrade turned to him desperately. "What the hell is this?"

"It's Sherlock," he replied calmly, taking a seat. "He's not dead." He glanced up at Sherlock, who was observing Lestrade sharply, no doubt seeing far more than John did.

"Well I can see that!" the DI roared. "How?"

"How? How? Is that all anyone can ask? The how is so horribly dull." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and John rolled his eyes, hiding a smile. As obnoxious as this side of Sherlock was, John was thrilled to have him back. "The part afterwards is far more interesting. Ask me about that."

"Afterwards?" Lestrade seemed so horribly confused and a bit like he was in shock. "After death?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but John cut him off quickly. "He faked his death so he could keep us alive and hunt down some of Moriarty's men-"

"Most of his men. Nearly all," the consulting detective amended.

"He thinks nearly all of them. It doesn't matter. He's back though, should you need him. I think the fact that he's here at all should do a good amount against the claims against him. And I'd be willing to be that he's been cleared of all charges if you check his record." John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded.

Lestrade looked at John, managing a tight smile. "No doubt. With that brother of his, anything is possible." The smile grew more relaxed, and John could not help but return it.

Sherlock, however, frowned slightly. "How do you know my brother?"

The DI rolled his eyes. "Do you know how many times he's abducted me, Sherlock? How many times he's warned me to keep an eye on you? 'Make sure to monitor Sherlock's habit.' 'Keep him busy. It's a danger night.' 'Don't give him a case this week. I need him for something.' 'Check in on Sherlock today. John is out of town.' Honestly, if he wanted to talk to me so much, he could have just asked me out like a normal person-" he cut himself off quickly with a blush.

John sat forward in his chair. "You and Mycroft?"

The blush deepened. "Of course not. It was just a figure of speech."

"Of course it was." Sherlock smirked, eyeing the detective up and down critically. The smirk grew. "Definitely just a figure of speech."

"Oh, shut up. You come back to the dead, and _this_ is the important topic? Get out of my office. I'll look into having you consult again."

"Thanks Greg." John grinned and tugged Sherlock out before he comment again. It was only then that he realized he had not received a text since they left the restaurant. He wondered if Moriarty had been listening in. If so, he now had an unfortunate bit of information about the respectable Detective Inspector. John forced himself to forget his worry when they made it outside to the street, laughing with Sherlock. "Now that's a couple I never would have bet on."

"Me neither," Sherlock replied unexpectedly. "But I think it could happen. They've been spending enough time together recently." He looked over at John and his smile faltered. "So have you, it seems."

John blushed. "Yeah. I have. But I promise you, it was not for the same reason as Greg."

"Then why have you been visiting my brother, John?"

"It's only been the past...six months? After you...left, he stopped by a lot to assure me that I would be taken care of. The rent would be payed, etcetera. Then he stopped coming round. I'd get letters from him, or emails, encouraging me to get back to living like a normal person. So I started consulting. But that was about it. Then, a few months back, he invited me over for tea. I'd hit a particularly low spot, but I guess he knew that." John looked up to meet Sherlock's guarded eyes. "I went, and by the time I left I'd been thoroughly observed, commented on, and put in my place. While I could certainly afford to stay home and and mope all day, I would never move on if I did. Over a series of visits, he convinced me to take up my old job at surgery and move on. We still try to meet for lunch at least once a week."

Sherlock's walk had slowed. "You meet my brother for lunch? How do you stand it?"

John grinned. "I have to. That's the thing. Everyone else either shut me out, or pities me. Mycroft doesn't treat me any different from how he did before. And it helped. A lot." He paused. "Does it bother you?"

"No. No, of course not. I just don't know how you can stand it."

The doctor shrugged. "It's not so bad. He reminded me of you, actually." He glanced up at Sherlock's shocked expression. "I mean, the way you talk is similar. And you're both geniuses. And... I don't know. But it helped me to be around someone like you. And we get on pretty well these days."

Sherlock controlled his expression and made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, then sped up his pace again. John grinned and tried to keep up. Then he felt the buzz in his pocket.

_Be careful, John. I wouldn't want you to forget your goal. -JMx_

John's step faltered. Right. Not everything was back to normal. He hesitated, then took Sherlock's hand in his own, as though to soothe him. He noticed a small smile pass over Sherlock's face, and felt guilty. Not uncomfortable. Not unhappy. In fact, he rather enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock's hand in his own. But the guilt continued to nag at him. The guilt and the worry of when and how this would end.

_Treat him when you get home. Prove that you mean this. But don't overwhelm him just yet. -JMx_

_It would be fun to see you drive him crazy. I bet you could do it. Another time, huh? -M_

John grit his teeth, stowing his phone away. Sherlock, noticing the motion, frowned. "Who was that? They've upset you."

"Hm? Oh. It was, uh, Harry. She's drinking again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I told you _years_ ago that she wouldn't be able to quit. She doesn't care about the health issues, just the effects of the alcohol. I don't know why you still expect different results."

Good. It had worked. Truthfully, Harry had been sober for months now. But it sure made for a good distraction. "It's not that I expect different results. It's that I _hope_ for different results. I want her to realize how bad off she is. That's why I still check in with Clara. She's closer than I am. And she keeps tabs on Harry. When she starts to improve, I'll connect with her again."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Don't be surprised when the call comes to say she's been hospitalized again."

"_If_ the call comes, I won't be surprised. Can we talk about something else?"

"Fine. What would you prefer we talk about?"

John was silent for a moment. What did he want to talk about? How about how Moriarty was also alive? Or how John was lying to him? That it would be safer and better if Sherlock locked up his heart and turned John away? But he could not say any of this. Not if he wanted Sherlock to live to see tomorrow. So, instead, he replied, "Tell me what you did while you were gone. Where did you go?"

FInally given his chance in the spotlight, Sherlock smirked. He told John of all of his 'missions'. He spoke of different counters, of Moriarty's men, of going undercover, and of bringing down Moriarty's web one string at a time. He talked all the way home, and while John reheated their dinners. He told stories as they ate. And John was impressed, something he did not bother to hide. He could understand why Sherlock thought he had nearly finished his work. But while the web had fallen apart, the spider was still out there, waiting to rebuild.

John received no texts until he and Sherlock had moved to their respective chairs in the living room. Sherlock had continued his story telling, going for hours, getting far more comfortable as time went on. After a while, John began to notice that they were moving closer. Very slowly, but every shift or change in position pulled their chairs nearer to each other. By now, John had felt his phone vibrate multiple times, but he ignored it. No doubt Moriarty and his lapdog were telling him to movie things along, but he would do this on his own time.

It was around four thirty in the morning and Sherlock was finishing up his last story of Russia when John realized they were right next to each other. They were close enough that their legs were crossed over each other. Sherlock's hand rested on his own, and the detective himself was watching John carefully. It took him a moment to realize he must have dozed off. He did not remember doing so, but it looked as though Sherlock had been watching him for a while. "John."

The doctor shifted, sitting up a bit. "Yes?"

"You're exhausted, physically and emotionally. You should go to bed. I've kept you up long enough." There was a softness to his voice that John had rarely ever heard, and it made him smile.

"I'm fine. If anything, you need sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft didn't allow me to come back to you until I was in perfect health. I'm more than well rested."

John raised his eyebrows stubbornly, but the affect was lost by the sleep in his eyes. "I'm not sleeping unless you are."

He received a sigh in response. "FIne." Sherlock stood and looked at John expectantly.

The doctor followed suit, then started for the stairs to his room. He hesitated, not quite sure how to handle what he knew he had to do, the returned to Sherlock's side, biting the inside of his lip. He rested a light hand on Sherlock's shoulder nervously, then pulled the taller man close. Pressing his lips lightly against his friend's was unusual, and over before he had any time to determine his feelings about it, pushing Sherlock back quickly. Then, he rushed upstairs without a single glance back. Once in the safety of his room, he checked the most recent message on his phone.

_Very impressive, John. He's stunned. But better than that, he's happy. You've done well. Sleep well now. Your work continues tomorrow. -JMx_


End file.
